


On Virtues and Vices

by Leprechon



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Edwardian Period, England (Country), M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:35:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28966935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leprechon/pseuds/Leprechon
Summary: In 1902, Patroclus first learns of 'the unspeakable vice of the Greeks'.In 1908, he meets Achilles Pelides.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 22





	On Virtues and Vices

Patroclus first learns of 'the unspeakable vice of the Greeks' in 1902.

It is the last day of classes and the preparatory school has surprised students with a rare trip to the nearby beach. Mr. Ducie has pulled Patroclus aside to stroll along the beach while the other students are herded into groups. Patroclus is content - he loves the beach, loves the smell of salt in the wind and seagulls wailing in the distance. It's almost cathartic, the freedom a stark contrast to the isolation he feels at home, and he runs ahead of Mr. Ducie, reveling in the simplicity of the beach's splendor. The water licks at his ankles and the breeze ruffles his hair. 

Mr. Ducie chuckles. "Menotiades," he calls. Patroclus slows down to wait for his teacher. "Menotiades, has your father ever explained to you what will happen in the coming years?"

Patroclus furrows his eyebrows. "Sir? About me attending a public school next year?"

Mr. Ducie shakes his head. "No, Menotiades. About your body."

"S-sir?"

"Menotiades," Mr. Ducie sighs. "I'm going to talk to you for a few moments as if I was your father. You see, I know a bit about your situation with your father and his temperament, so this is a topic I do not anticipate him giving you much guidance on. However, every young man must learn of these things before he comes of age. Do you understand?"

Patroclus blinks. 

"Very soon, your body will experience various changes, physical changes. I am sure it has been explained to you that in the beginning, God created man and woman such that the world be peopled abundantly."

"Yes, sir...but changes? What changes?" Patroclus asks.

Mr. Ducie pauses and carefully considers the question. "I speak, Menotiades, of the sacred mystery of sex. The act of procreation between a man and his wife. Indeed, the procreation of all living, creeping beings. You will discover that your manhood will develop and grow larger. You see?"

Patroclus just stares at his teacher, face flushed. He feels at a loss for words.

"And when that occurs," Mr. Ducie continues, "the man lies very, _very_ close to his wife, and he thrusts his manhood into her pulsating womanhood." With his walking-stick, Mr. Ducie begins to sketch a series of explicit images upon the sand. "Thus, the seed of life is spilled and the act of procreation is complete. Then, in due time, she will bring forth the fruits of her womb: his child."

Patroclus watches as, next to crude depictions of a phallus and vagina, Mr. Ducie roughly draws an equal sign and a baby. He finishes his artwork off with a pointed jab at the sand. "That, that is the very crown of life, Menotiades. God's wondrous purpose. Your body is His temple. You must never ever pollute that temple."

"Pollute, sir?" Patroclus asks. "How does one pollute their body?"

Mr. Ducie fixes him with an intense gaze. "There are many inevitabilities in life, Menotiades. And as I'm sure you will, one day when you fall in love and marry, you will discover to serve and protect a woman, and have children by her, and raise children with her, is life's chiefest glory. Anything outside of that purpose, young man, will pollute His temple. Keep in mind, however, to be temped to pollute is one of life's inevitabilities. This is why I am arming you with this information now, Menotiades, so you can avoid the temptation of such vices. This will ensure you are living in accordance with God's wondrous purpose. Do you understand?"

Patroclus nods and the intense look on Mr. Ducie's face slips away. He chuckles and ruffles Patroclus' hair affectionately, turning around to guide them back down the beach to rejoin the others. "Remember, Menotiades, you must never, ever mention any of this to any lady, and if at your next school any fellows mention it, just shut them up. Tell them you already know."

Mr. Ducie continues to talk as he tugs Patroclus along. Patroclus glances back, once, over his shoulder, at the spot where they had just been, at the crude drawings Mr. Ducie had sketched in the sand. Patroclus watches as the drawings are swallowed up by the tide, gone by the time the water retreats, erasing any physical evidence of their conversation. 

* * *

The year is 1908 and Patroclus is at Cambridge. 

It is the fall of Patroclus' second year. He has come to like Cambridge quite a bit; the atmosphere is markedly different from Sunnington, the public school he had spent his adolescence at, and Patroclus finds that he can breathe a bit easier, think more freely - the college had begun to digest him. Patroclus is still quiet and reserved, preferring to keep to himself, but he has quickly distinguished himself as one of the brightest and most motivated amongst his cohort. On the last day at Sunnington, on Prize Day, Patroclus had stood upon a platform and recited a Greek Oration of his own composition. His Greek was lacking, but he had received a prize on account of the Thought and, alongside it, a copy of Grote's _History of Greece_. The Headmaster of Sunnington himself had sung Patroclus' praises to his longtime friend, the dean of Cambridge, and shortly thereafter, Patroclus had been welcomed to Cambridge with open arms. After all, prize books on his shelves would help to advertise the school. 

Patroclus is at lunch with the dean of his college, Mr. Cornwallis. The dean's cousin, Odysseus, is stood at the fireplace, giving an impassioned lecture on the arts as they eat, a feast of roasted meat and potatoes spread out in the dean's rooms.

"You see, Cornwallis, music is about death, it always has been. Music is the highest of the arts - it needs no reference to the figurative, or to the corporeal. It is therefore, of all the arts, the closest to death. When Wagner composes a piece, he is merely expressing most exactly the state of things."

"Oh, give it a rest, Laertiades. I'm sure we would appreciate if you ceased your babbling," Mr. Cornwallis remarks. He gestures at Odysseus' plate. "Stuff your relentless mouth with potatoes and give us reprieve."

There are a couple beats of silence. "You know, I simply cannot think of a reply to that, Cornwallis," Odysseus says thoughtfully as he gnaws on a potato. 

"What about saying nothing?" the dean suggests. 

"Say nothing?" Odysseus parrots. He quirks an eyebrow. "Horrible, you must be mad."

Patroclus doesn't know what suddenly comes over him, but the words are leaving his mouth before he can think. "What you do is more important than what you say," Patroclus says. "Your deeds, your actions, are more important than your words."

Odysseus' lips twitch. "My dear Menotiades, what is the difference? Words are deeds." He comes to sit next to Patroclus and spears a potato on his fork. "For instance, will you ever forget that you've met me?"

Mr. Cornwallis laughs heartily. "Laertiades, I believe you're confusing what is important with what is impressive. Menotiades will always remember that he's met you, of that I have no doubt."

"Exactly, because of my conversation!" Odysseus exclaims. "Oh, Menotiades will forget that he was engaged in the act of eating roasted meat and potatoes. This merely influences the subconscious life, Cornwallis. I, by my words, shape the consciousness. I am, therefore, not only impressive, but infinitely more important than that which engages the subconscious."

"I think," Cornwallis mutters, "if a man has ideas like that, he should have the courtesy to keep them to himself."

Odysseus merely laughs good-naturedly. "No, no, no Cornwallis. On the contrary, one must talk, talk, talk." Odysseus leans closer to Patroclus, carelessly throwing an arm around the back of his chair. "Menotiades, your dean here lives in superstitious fantasies of Christian self-righteousness," he says, voice sinking into a conspiratorial whisper. "Your dean _pretends_ that only insentient faith is of any significance. And daily he slumps, sedated, into his soup-"

"Oh, shut up, Laertiades," the dean grumbles and moves to clear his plate. 

Odysseus shoots Patroclus a smirk. "You see, it's only by talking that we shall caper upon the summit. Else, the mountains will overshadow us. I'm sure, Menotiades, you will agree."

Later, as Patroclus is leaving the building, Odysseus catches him. 

"Menotiades," Odysseus greets jovially. "I'd be eager to hear more of your interesting ideas, about words and deeds. My rooms are in Trinity." At this, Odysseus pulls out a white card and tucks it in Patroclus' pocket. He winks. "And I have a dining club whose members would, if I'm not mistaken, interest you." 

Satisfied, Odysseus leaves in a whirlwind of pomp and arrogance and Patroclus only stares after him. 

* * *

In the end, Patroclus mulls it over for only a day until he decides to take Odysseus up on his offer.

Although Odysseus had intimidated him with his sharp words and eclectic ideas, Patroclus finds himself strangely drawn to the other man in a way he's never felt before. Odysseus had been dark, tall, and affected. When lecturing, Odysseus made exaggerated gestures and used strong yet unmanly superlatives. Odysseus had acted entirely different to the people Patroclus had encountered at Sunnington and in his first year at Cambridge.

In a way, Patroclus feels like Odysseus might help him - how, he doesn't know. It is all very obscure, for the mountains still overshadow Patroclus. Odysseus, surely capering on the summit, might stretch him a hand to help.

It is nearing dark as Patroclus climbs the stairs in Trinity to Odysseus' rooms. On the way over, he'd nearly psyched himself out of coming altogether, a tight ball of nervousness forming an iron grip in his stomach. Despite this, Patroclus grits his teeth and persists. It has become an adventure, of some sorts. This man who said one ought to "talk, talk" has incomprehensibly stirred something in Patroclus.

Odysseus' rooms are at the end of a short, unlighted passage, and Patroclus slips alongside the wall until he meets the door. He takes a deep breath and knocks on the panels, a _thwack_ that echoes resoundingly in the passage.

"Come in!" a voice calls.

Patroclus opens the door and peaks his head around the corner. "Hello?"

Sitting on the floor, surrounded by a plethora of books, papers, and boxes, is decidedly _not_ Odysseus. The boy on the floor is unfamiliar, but something about him rouses a spark of warmth within Patroclus. The boy is gangly, long where Odysseus is stout, and soft where Odysseus is hardened. His skin is smooth and tanned, which is surprising given England's climate and general gloominess. He has flowing golden locks that curl around his ears and neck, falling in uncontrollable waves on his forehead and into his piercing green eyes. The boy looks rumpled, clothes in disarray as he paws through the castle of pianola records he is perched in front of.

"Hello? Are you looking for Laertiades? Hello?"

Patroclus starts, flushing a deep crimson when he realizes he has been silently staring at the boy. He clears his throat.

"Y-yes, hello! Where is he?"

"I don't know. What did you need?"

"Oh," Patroclus says, biting his lip. "It's nothing, I'll go."

"Wait," the boy says, without looking up. He is still combing through the records. "Are you going back into college? I think you're a man of my college, I recognize you. Menotiades, isn't it?"

Patroclus furrows his eyebrows. "Yes, I'm Menotiades. I'm sorry, I don't quite recognize you..."

The boy chuckles. "Pelides. Achilles Pelides." The boy - _Achilles_ \- looks up at him and quirks an eyebrow when Patroclus doesn't respond. "Well? Are you going back into college?"

"I suppose so, as he isn't here. Anyways, it wasn't anything particularly important."

"Wait a second and I'll join you. I'm sorting out the Pathetic Symphony." 

Patroclus nods and takes a seat at the table, studying Achilles. In the college, he's achieved a reputation for exclusiveness. Almost the only thing Patroclus has heard about him is that he "goes out too much" and engages in "frivolous extremities", whatever that means. 

"Sorry, I can't find the March," Achilles says finally. "I'm borrowing them to play on Diorides' pianola."

"Diorides? His rooms are directly above mine," Patroclus says. 

"Oh, you're living in college now?" Achilles asks. 

"Yes," Patroclus responds. "I'm beginning my second year."

"Oh yes, of course! I'm third myself." Achilles pauses and regards him attentively. "I didn't know you knew Laertiades. He's a dangerous man, you know. A little of him certainly goes a long way."

Patroclus isn't sure what to say to this, so he refocuses his attention on the records in front of Achilles. "So, you like this kind of music?"

Achilles smiles wryly. "I'm afraid I do, yes. Sweet water from a foul well, as they say."

"A good waltz is more my style," Patroclus says. In reality, Patroclus prefers literature and philosophy to music, but a certain feeling comes over him and urges him to impress Achilles as much as possible - why, he doesn't know.

Achilles' smile grows and Patroclus feels warm. "Mm, mine too, really."

Patroclus looks at his feet. "Pelides, I think I must be going." Really, Patroclus is in no hurry, but his heart, which has not ceased beating so quickly, compels him to say it. 

"All right. The other movement may be in that pile over there, by the window. I must look. I won't be long," Achilles says. "I might catch up with you."

* * *

Later, as the porter unlocks the gate to Trinity for him, Patroclus hears quick footsteps behind him. 

"Menotiades!" It's Achilles, rushing through the gate behind him with a pile of records nestled in his arms.

Patroclus' heart skips a beat. "Pelides," he greets. "Found your March?"

Achilles laughs. "No, I thought I'd come along with you instead."

Patroclus' face flushes. To distract himself from the strange effect Achilles has on him, he grabs a few records from the teetering pile in Achilles' arms. "I'll help you carry some."

The walk back to the college is filled with Achilles' musings and ramblings. Achilles tells Patroclus of the paper he's writing on Tchaikovsky, of music, of Odysseus, of seemingly every subject that comes to his mind. Patroclus is silent, content to just walk and listen to Achilles talk. Upon reaching the college, Achilles makes a beeline for Automedon's rooms. Patroclus just trails behind him helplessly. As soon as Automedon lets them in, Achilles immediately rushes over to sit at the pianola. Patroclus kneels beside him.

"Didn't know you were into this sort of thing, Menotiades," Automedon remarks. He is slouched at his desk, sipping a cup of tea as he scribbles into his notebook, but his eyes are trained on the two men at the pianola.

"Oh, shut it, Diorides," Achilles throws out. He turns to Patroclus. "Menotiades, look. We will start with the 5/4 instead."

"Why?" Patroclus questions. 

"It's nearer waltzes," Achilles says simply. 

Patroclus flushes, but he's pleased. "Oh, never mind that. Play what you like!"

Achilles just shakes his head and fixes the 5/4 instead.

As the music plays, Patroclus listens carefully. He decides, _I rather like this_. 

At the end, Achilles turns to him with an impish grin. "What do you think?"

"It was lovely," Patroclus replies honestly. "Would you mind playing it again, if Diorides doesn't mind?"

But Achilles refuses. "A movement isn't like a separate piece - you can't repeat it," he says. Instead, he fixes another piece - the Largo, which is far from jolly. 

As the music plays, Achilles glances at the book Automedon is reading. "Sophocles, eh? You see, Diorides, try re-reading the _Ajax_ and focus on the characters rather than the author. You'll learn more this way, both about Greek grammar and life." 

Automedon and Achilles begin arguing a bit, about Sophocles and the Greeks, and Patroclus sits on the bench in front of the pianola, thigh pressed to the heat of Achilles' thigh next to him. He lets the conversation and music wash over him. 

At the end of the night, they exchange their goodbyes and Patroclus returns to his rooms, utterly exhausted and noiseless. He falls asleep, thinking about blond locks and waltzes, and the original purpose of his trip to Trinity is long-forgotten. 

**Author's Note:**

> this is inspired by & loosely based off of the film/novel maurice!! i was watching the film last night and thought it would make a great patrochilles au :) the first chapter follows the plot of maurice very closely, but it'll start to diverge in later chapters! i hope you guys enjoy :)


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